


Not As A Soldier (a book-end to the 2015 movie Suite Française)

by koalathebear



Category: Suite Française (2015 film)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 12:03:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4434767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koalathebear/pseuds/koalathebear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SPOILERS for the film!  </p><p>
  <i>"Hardly a word of our true feelings had ever been spoken.  Not a single word about love.  <br/>After the war I heard that Bruno had died.  But maybe he just disappeared, like me.<br/>I drove Benoit to a farmhouse and a week later we made it to Paris.  We fought for what we believed in and four years later France was free.<br/>Over time I tried to forget the people I lost, but the music always carries me back to him…"</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not As A Soldier (a book-end to the 2015 movie Suite Française)

**Author's Note:**

> The epilogue of the film was so sad. I couldn't bear to leave it at that and had to write my own bookend.

The woman sat at the window of the large, once great house, staring out at the garden. Sunlight warmed her wheat gold hair, hair that was braided and coiled at the nape of her neck. Staring out into the garden, her mind saw the past far more clearly than the present.

They were long gone – almost all of them. Only Marthe was still here as a reminder of the days before the war. Dependable Marthe - a little older, much greyer but as loyal and devoted as ever. After the war, when Lucile had finally returned to Bussy, the older woman had sunk to her knees on the stones of the yard, her face buried in her hands weeping with joy before the young woman had crouched beside her and held her.

All of the others had drifted into memory. Madame had died just shortly prior to Liberation – a blessing perhaps. Although she had not lived long enough to learn of the end of the war, she had also not lived long enough to receive formal confirmation of Gaston's death. 

The Viscount and Vicountess de Montmort were spoken of in disparaging whispers, their property seized by the State and their family name dissolved into infamy.

Benoit Labarie had died during the war while working for the French Resistance. He had always been grateful to Lucile for her part in saving his life and they had become almost friends – his death had saddened her greatly. His wife Madeleine had left Bussy after Benoit's escape to Paris, taking the children with her. No one had heard from them since. 

Lucile thought of the letter sitting upstairs in the draw of her desk. A letter from Benoit, to give to his wife in the unlikely event that Lucile should ever see Madeleine again.

Celine Joseph had borne a child out of wedlock and on the day of Liberation, had been dragged from her home, head shaven as she was paraded down the streets of the town on the back of a lorry. Daubed with tar, stripped half naked, marked with swastikas in paint, her head had hung in shame and humiliation. Like many others, Celine disappeared, never to be seen again. Her family and child remained in Bussy – shunned by the village folk.

"Maman – is she dead?" young Anna had asked soberly as she worked at Lucile's side in the garden. Lucile was profoundly grateful for the young girl's presence in what would otherwise have been a large, cold and empty house filled with ghosts and memory.

"She is with your papa," Lucile had told her.

"Then they are dead and with the angels," Anna had replied,"like madame…" the young child had told her soberly, her pale face filled with sorrow. Anna had grown fond of the old woman who had shown a gentler side to the young Jewish refugee that she had never been able to anyone else in the world.

Like many others, Anna would never know where her mother Leah was buried … if she was buried at all. When Anna had nightmares, Lucile would hold the girl close, feeling her thin body shaking uncontrollably, her tears staining her night shift.

"In time, it grows easier," she had promised, comforting herself as much as Leah.

And then finally, there was _him_ … It had hurt far too much to even think of him at first. Eventually she was able to think of him again … Lieutenant Bruno von Falk. 

Moving away from the window, she sat at the piano and her fingers moved strong and sure over the worn keys of her piano. The sweet familiar melody soothed her in a way that nothing else could. Was it wrong that the music composed by the enemy who had lived in her home had such a healing quality about it.

"Lucile – why do you always cry when you play that song?" Anna asked her curiously.

"Ssshhh," Marthe hushed her loudly and Lucile smiled.

"No – it's all right," she told the older woman. "It reminds me of someone … someone who is no longer here … and it makes me sad."

"So why do you play it if it makes you sad?" the child asked her curiously, dark eyes huge with puzzlement.

"It's all I have left of this … person who is gone," she blurted out, tears stinging her eyes.

"I don't have anything left of maman and papa," Anna told her bluntly and Lucile shook her head.

"You have your memories … and the love of your parents brought you to me and kept you safe … you will always have that."

"And you have memories, too then Lucile," Anna pointed out and Lucile nodded. 

"This is very true, _ma petite_ ," she replied, rising to her feet and embracing the young girl who had become both a younger sister and a daughter. "Now go with Marthe to the kitchen to do your homework."

She watched the young girl leave for a moment before retrieving her hat and walking out to the front of the house. She was now the landlady of the surrounding estates – but charged only nominal rent, willing to accept items in kind … crops, labour … She permitted the tenant farmers to use the lands surrounding the house to graze their animals in exchange for milk, meat and wool.

Her inheritance from Madame and from Gaston was sufficient for them to live on and she supplemented their income by selling produce from their garden and giving piano lessons to the village folk who cared to receive any musical training.

Ignoring Marthe's constant scolding of her for going out walking on her own, Lucille began walking along the path towards the lake, in need of fresh air and silence.

A dusty vehicle was driving up the road, clearly heading in the direction of the house as there were no other homes nearby. The car pulled up alongside her and she froze and stared at the driver in shock. The world spun and breathing became difficult and she sat down on the ground beside the road hard, taking deep gulping breaths.

It was not the first time she had seen him. Since their wordless farewell, she saw him everywhere – not only in her dreams but on crowded street corners, in the woods, beside the waters of the lake … Sometimes he was alive, sometimes he was dead, his body maimed and bloody. She no longer trusted her own senses and she put her head between her knees, knocking her hat off as she wrapped her arms around her head. Her breath came out in laboured sobs.

A strong hand rested firmly on her shoulder. "Are you all right?" 

She stared up incredulously, unable to believe the voice. "You're not here. You're dead … they said you died…"

"Bruno von Falk is dead," he agreed calmly and she stared into his face searchingly. His face was thinner, almost gaunt, a white scar running across his left cheek marring his previously almost classic features. His hair was overly long, falling over his face carelessly and there were tears in his eyes.

His smile didn't quite reach his eyes. The soldier von Falk was dead. The officer who had initiated an unsuccessful coup of his own leaders was also dead … imprisoned and on the point of execution as a traitor when Liberation had taken place. When the Americans had found him, evidence of the traitorous crimes committed by him and his men against the Third Reich had been apparent.

"Always thought that there was no such thing as a good German except a dead German," the US army captain had commented but he had been impressed at their audacity. He had been tried and acquitted given the volume of evidence his superiors had gathered against him that spoke to his attempt to challenge his masters.

Strong hands reached down and helped her back to her feet. She slumped against him for a moment, dazed and unable to believe that this was not yet another feverish dream.

"Is it really you?" she asked him, reaching up to touch his face wonderingly and he nodded.

"Yes … I wasn't sure if I should come … after everything …"

She leaned against him and his arms tightened around her as he brushed his lips across the top of her head.

She tilted her head back and his mouth covered hers, the kiss filled with longing and hunger. Finally she put her arms around him and rested her cheek against his chest, feeling the strong beat of his heart. "It's time to come home," she told him with a smile. 

He left the car by the side of the road and holding hands like children, they walked home.


End file.
